


Knowhere

by spinnd



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Magic, Demon!Bilbo, Erebor, HRBB14, Non-Graphic Violence, hobbit reverse big bang 2014, mage!Dwarves, mage!Thorin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-01 18:48:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2783918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinnd/pseuds/spinnd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The four dwarves looked up, and Thorin felt his head give a distinct throb. Because standing before him, was the most un-demon demon that ever had the misfortune of being dragged through the fiery Hel-plains and up into some Mountain by a half-baked summoner's call.</p><p>"His name," Balin ventured carefully, "is Bilbo."</p><p> </p><p>Hobbit Reverse Big Bang 2014, prompt and art by thehobbitpanda</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wee Free Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thehobbitpanda](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thehobbitpanda).



> My passing attempt at magical worldbuilding, in which Thorin's awful at summoning, Bilbo's awful at demoning, and the whole Quest feels like some Valar-forsaken vaudeville that Dwalin wants out of. Now. 
> 
> Art and prompt by thehobbitpanda on the [HRBB tumblr](http://hobbitreversebang.tumblr.com/post/94913185606/thehobbitpanda-the-rough-draft-of-my-first):
> 
> _Thorin decides to summon a demon for aid and guarantees help by bonding his soul to it. The only problem? He ends up summoning Bilbo the most undemon like demon ever._
> 
> My thanks again for your patience and wonderful art and contributions!
> 
>  
> 
> As far as possible, this will be updated weekly.

 

 

**Prologue**

 

His Adad had never been the best story-teller, truth be told. Most nights, it was the same Dwarrowling tales of old Dwarven heroes rescuing their dames (though there was Hrirtha, who saved her Lord Dufr from an inebriated Troll), and if there was any variation to the theme, it tended toward Eddic liturgical canticles or recitations of the entire Dwarven geneology in the Three Tongues.

Most nights, he would fall asleep to the monotone drone of uninterested Khuzdul that only paused for a sip of water, a clearing of the throat, or at its worst, a contemplation of completely skipping over any bits with kissing or canoodling, usually accompanied by a flustered "well, you know how these things go,"  - when in fact, no, Thorin did  _not_  know how these things were supposed to go.  

Most nights, Thorin wondered if his Adad was even trying.

It took him a year to muster the courage and reach the limit of his endurance to finally ask, "Adad, could you tell me about Erebor, and the First Dwarves instead?"

Fror merely stared. Like he was some tween asking for a reading of The Seven Voluminous Dwarrowdams.

"I think we'll save that for another night, Thorin," was all he got before the old Dwarf launched into the Psalter Deio.

Head still aching the next day from two hours of continuous throat-chanting, he sought out his mother just after his Elva-kaffe.

"He never tells me about them, Maman," he grumbled, as Freia juggled his struggling brother in her arms whilst  _storsyster_ Dis screamed over her dismembered dolls. 

"Maybe another time,  _bliorbug,"_ she said absently, calmly, in spite of the twin sets of bawling, "when you're older."

So Thorin counted. Four full moons to his next name day, and when he was twelve years and an hour old, he tried again.

"I don't know,  _dylladoun._ Maybe you're still too young for stories like that." Fror sighed, and was halfway inhaling for another Incant when Thorin stopped him just in time.

"Or tell me about my Adad? My real Adad? And Sabba?"

Thrain II, ' _Adad_ ', and, ' _Sabba_ ' Thror, "The Darkstone", former Kings of the Blue Dwarves, his father and his father-before-him. Thorin knew next to nothing about them, beyond perfunctory names and titles, and the fact that they left for somewhere and never came back; King Thror at least a hundred years ago, and King Thrain a month before Frerin was born and the feast was barely cleared from Thorin's fifth birthday.

Maman had never been keen to tell him much. Even Dis, eldest of them three and the one with the most schooling in all manner of kingly topics, was frustratingly unclear about the Kings’ Quests. And tonight, Fror - _Sabba-Broir_ actually, but _Adad_ from since he could properly remember - looked like he wasn't ready to divulge anything either.

Thorin steeled himself for another night of 'Nyil and the Five-Legged Boar-Hound' - so it was much to his surprise when Fror merely settled back against the stone head of his bed and curled a thick arm around him.

The old dwarf was pensive for the while, an unsettled look hovering over his features, but just as his grand-nephew made to ask after his wellbeing, and general presence of mind, he looked down and smiled.  

"You know, your Adad Thrain was about your age when Thror left for Erebor."

The boy’s face lit up. "Erebor is  _real_?"

"So they tell me."

 

* * *

Long ago, so the stories went, there was a god who created the Dwarves. And he was pleased with his Dwarves. And his Dwarves were so perfect that he had to keep them a secret, for if the other gods found out, there would be great jealousy and strife.

(Even the Ylfe-gods?)

(Especially the Ylfe-gods.) 

So Mahal, the Creator, built a mountain for them, to keep them safe. He created Seven Dwarves, The First Fathers, and settled them in his secret mountain to flourish - and flourished they did. They grew their families, and grew in strength and numbers, and prospered within the walls of the Mountain.

(How did they prosper? Were there Dwarrowdams too?)

(Erhm.)

They prospered from Mahal's blessings. But as they grew bolder, they were curious and wanted to see the World, so they began to venture outside the Mountain, and came in contact with beings so unlike anything they'd seen. Ettins, huge beings, 6 feet and above. Petty-men, who were shorter but still towered over the Dwarves. Even Ylfes - but the Fathers didn't think much of them, obviously. These beings traded with them, forged relations and alliances, and the wealth of the Mountain grew even more.

But there was evil in the world as well, all manner of foul creatures and black beasts - Trolls, Wargs, Orks. But there was one creature, who had seen the wealth of the Dwarves, and grew wrathful and envious. And was intent on taking their Mountain, and all that was in it.

(The Dragonborn.)

(Who told you that?)

(Dwalin.)

(I'll have to have a word with that boy - anyhow, yes.)

 _Smaugen_. The Dragonborn. He attacked the Mountain, stole what was rightfully Dwarven land and treasures, and scattered the First Fathers. Durin the Dead, first of the First, was the only one who stood his ground, and faced down the Smoke-Demon within the walls of his home. They fought, day and night, until the very walls shook and crumbled around them.

(What happened to Durin the Dead?)

(He died.)

Erebor disappeared, into the waters of the Llyn, it is said. The Dwarves who survived fled, scattered, all across the Aerth, into the Iron Hills and the Long Swamps and the Grytops. Durin's family, led by his son Also-Durin, settled in the Blue Mountains and took it for their kingdom. And Durin's Folk have lived thus ever since, to carry on the Durin Legacy. 

(What's "Legacy", Adad?)

A birthright; passed from father to son. Before Durin died, he was heard to cast a _Grimorie_ spell that bound the mountain with a Covenant: if any of his Line were to find their way into the Mountain again, and defeat the Dragonborn, Erebor would be restored and the Dwarven Kind will be reunited as one great Nation.

(Though if you ask me, it's probably a whole lot of tosh and faerie-tales. I wouldn't think too much on it, _bairnling_.)

 

* * *

Thorin didn't know if he liked this story any better than the previous ones. And said as much. Though it had been the most animated he had ever seen his Adad - even more than the time he overtoned the High Regent Oratorium in four different polyphones.

It left him feeling uneasy however, long after Fror bade him goodnight and slipped out the door. There was a strangely hot lump in his chest now, emanating a warmth that spread down his arms and into his hands, even as he curled under the covers and tried to will himself to sleep. He wasn't usually like this - being frightened by a bedtime story was something for the little ones, like Frerin, the big baby.

Maybe it was the banquet stew, he consoled himself, burning fingers tucked under him, trying not to overthink. Yes, it must be; he never did well with mutton.

And he tried not to think much on it either when he awoke the next morning to a Death's Head Hawkmoth half-draped over his face, drunkenly twitching and smelling of Leaf.

 


	2. Molehill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company of Thorin Durinson - but he doesn't know that yet.

HRBB Art by thehobbitpanda:

 

* * *

 

 

_Orisson_

 

Ori Orisson was not having a good day.  

It took a lot to put him in a bad mood, but having to break his brother out of jail, when his other brother was the section guard, was by no means in any way a cheery affair.

"Did he put you up to this? I told you to stay away, visiting hours or none, did I not?" Dori thundered, the table beneath his hands starting to creak ominously, before turning aside to mutter, as he always did in particularly stressful situations, "what would Mother say?"

"She doesn't know, I promise," Ori reassured, if a little guiltily remembering the note he'd left on the kitchen top with three smiley faces drawn in. "She thinks we've gone on some brotherly excursion together; family bonding time, and all that."

"She'd never believe-" Dori paused, then glared. "Did you make 'me' write it?" 

 "It's not just about getting Nori out." Ori fumbled for the wisp he had rolled up and stashed in his satchel. He unfurled it on the dark oak surface, smoothing out the creases. "Look."

Dori scanned the light-sheet suspiciously. Frowned when he followed to where his little brother's finger jabbed excitedly at the shimmering inked lines that had settled on the solidifying page. Then looked up, trying his hardest not to feel surprised. He could feel his eyes crossing with the effort.

"Magic-casters?"

 Ori nodded. "And the reward..."

It actually physically hurt, how wide his eyes popped. 

"And. By the decree of Prince Thorin Durinson, his oak sigil's right here-"

"I can see that, Ori." The older dwarf snapped. He re-read the Summon thrice over, just to be doubly sure - of the request, for mage-dwarves; of the reward, more than what the entire prison guard could earn in a lifetime; and to finally confirm his suspicions that the Prince had, like the rest of his family, gone completely mad. 

"He must be desperate, putting out a Cloud like this. Spreading the news through the Mountain - the whole Mountain, Dori, all the 'Casters. It must be big." Ori studied his brother's reaction. It was like watching a bait being taken by a hypervigilant carp. 

"Big, yes. And secret." No one goes through the hassle of conjuring a Cloud Call unless it was for intended eyes, or ears, only. 

"Nori can keep things big and secret."

"Nori can keep a lot of things, dim-bulb." Dori sighed. He could tell where this was leading up to. And he didn't have to ask even, before the letter appeared before him.

Ori gazed up innocently. "It's even signed and everything. I've been practising."

The perfect replica of the Guard Captain's runic scribble stared smugly back up at them. 

"Please, Dori, please. This could be our chance."

His brother pursed his lips, then blew out a breath. 

"This one time." He said, and Ori felt a smile bloom over his face. 

"Thank you!-"

"But you've spelled "Release" wrong."

The young dwarf glared at the offending piece of parchment. Not a good day, no.

 

* * *

 

 _Ursenn_  

 

"Hrrzzzmmmmrhhh." Bifur said. It was the longest noise anyone's gotten out of him in weeks. Bombur smiled hopefully - at this rate, they could try starting over again with vowels come wintertime - and he happily spooned for his cousin more soup.

"Carrots," he intoned proudly, "radish, salted pork. You've always liked salted pork."

"Mmmhhm." Bifur twisted, hand flying out towards the bowl held just out of reach. 

Bombur tsk'd and retrieved the flopping appendage from under the table. "No. Bad. No throwing body parts during dinner, we've told you that."

"He won't listen if he's left his ears by the bed again." A voice called, followed by the stumbling hatted figure of his brother falling through the door.

"You're in a rush," Bombur pointed out, then paused his feeding when Bofur flashed an unusually maniacal grin. "Do I want to know?"

"Aye, 'course you do." Bofur whirled around the table, pushing the chairs aside with a loud screech that made their cousin jump. "Hallo, Bifur - ah, your ears are on. Here, listen up, yous."

The bowls were barely moved before a large squarish rock was hefted onto the table with a great bang. Bofur immediately pressed his cheek against the smooth granite, stroking at it with his fingertips and crooning softly. Bombur only hoped this didn't entail an overnight fiddle reel like the last time Bofur sparked a Sound Rock off and it got stuck playing something sounding like a screaming cat that entire night. 

Bifur seemed to remember that incident as well. He had taken off his ears and tucked them into his coat pockets, whimpering softly.

"Almost... come on, lass, come on," Bofur hummed to the stone. 

Bombur, prepared for the worst as he was, still jumped at the trumpet blast that blared from the usually quiet rock. 

"Bloody hell -" Bofur grimaced, as the noise subsided to a more acceptable level, "a'right, a'right, here it is -- Bifur, put your ears back!"

The voice was grainy, as if grinding through the rock itself, pushing out from beneath sediment layers, and it made the words difficult at first. Still, Bombur heard pretty much what he figured he was meant to hear.

He stared at his brother as the Cloud Call faded out. 

"But why would the Prince summon Mage-folk?"

"When was the last time the Royal Blues needed us 'Casters?" Bofur grinned, that same disconcerting grin flashing before he whispered conspiratorially: " _Erebor_."

 Erebor. They had heard enough stories; every 'Caster knew that once a generation, the Durin Kings would set out to find the Lonely Mountain, in a bid to reunite the Kingdoms. Every 'Caster anticipated the call - though it had been closer to forceful conscription in the early years. And every 'Caster knew it to be a fool's quest, a dead-end journey. 'Dead' and 'end' were, in particular, rather concerning prospects.

 "Come 'ere, don't look so glum, Boms. It'll be an adventure..." Bofur sing-songed, which made Bifur laugh and clap his hand excitedly.

 Bombur sighed. Why they bothered with the appearance of consulting him in the first place, was quite beyond him.

 

* * *

 

_Oinsen_

It was supposed to be a quiet night. A normal night. Hot meal by the hearth, a washbasin to soak weary feet in, steamed towels around aching shoulders, and a good long smoke of pipeweed to round off the evening.

 He was a healer, by Mahal's Muddy Toes. He deserved a decent break after a hard day's work.

 Instead, here they were, frantically trying to beat out the last patches of burning rug, while the dwarf-shaped flame impassively monologued in their smoking hearth.

 "Your fault," Oin grumbled, snatching his plate away from his indignant brother. 

 "And did you expect me to _not_  answer a Cloud Call from His Royal Duriness?" The red-haired dwarf picked irritably at the bits of pie staining his jerkin. 

 "Through the fireplace? At supper?" Oin watched as the flame gave a perfectly executed bow, and snuffed out. "And I thought your Firecast to be better than this, brother. Unless you were trying to blow up the house intentionally."

 "I was distracted." Gloin at least had the decency to turn the same shade of red as his hair, and Oin couldn't help but feel slightly sorry for his brother. Things had been somewhat difficult for him and the missus lately - and between and on top of frequent arguments, there had been Gimli's toddler terrors to contend with in the week past.

 "Well," Oin huffed, toe-ing the ruined carpet, "you know what this means, though."

 "What does?"

 "The Cloud. Looks like our young Prince Thorin's finally decided to take up his Quest."

 "Mmhm." Gloin grunted noncommittally, and started to settle back into his armchair. Retrieving his fortunately-un-burnt pipe, he began packing the leaves, and was halfway through his first puff when he realised his brother had been looking at him the whole time. He narrowed his gaze. "What?"

 Oin had never been one for patience or tact. So he should have really expected the fist to his face following his brusquely stated: "We're going. Start packing. And have your bearded lady come get your goblin son."

 Still, one bleeding nose and another lengthy conversation later, Gloin was at his bedroom door with a satchel fit for bursting. 

 "I told her not to wait up."

"That's a terrible thing to say," Oin couldn't help but mention, and the punch was definitely expected this time. 

Gloin didn't speak to him the entire way to the Blue Courts. He did, however, hand him the extra handkerchiefs. 

 

* * *

 

_Fundinson_

 

Dwalin waited for his brother to straighten up and dust off the remnant powder from his clothes before pronouncing, with as little emotion as he could muster:  

"That was the worst Cloud Call I've ever seen."

"You try it, then," Balin humoured him, unflappable as always. "I can assure you it works very differently from swinging axes at people's heads."

They've had this argument before - well, more of friendly sibling rivalry, really, the same way one would find Eyrie chicks fighting over the best spot in the nest, and less fatal, assuredly. Still, it never failed to irk Dwalin when people assumed he was just the Big Dwarf with the Menacing Axe, or that his brother inherited all of their family's spellskills.

"I've been practising," he growled, just that little bit hurt, because he _had_. "My Hurling was almost on-target yesterday."

"Well, good thing it wasn’t, or you would've cracked Thorin's skull wide open. You know his Forms aren’t that strong yet." 

This was true. Of all the ‘Casters in the Blue Mountains, nobody would have expected the Durin Prince to be one of the worst at Mage-werk. Just another sign, their father would have said, were he still alive - _Mahal_   _welcome_   _him_ -, that Magik was on the wane in the Kingdom. 

"Do you think they'll come?" He asked his brother after a minute of ponderous silence. "The others?" - because he wouldn't fault them if they didn't. The Quests had been a lost cause for centuries.

Balin looked out from behind his shelf of potions. "Doesn't matter who joins us, _lillebror_. We still go, all the same. The Portents have aligned for our time, and the Legacy dictates that we follow."

"Thorin's not ready."

"He'll have to be." 

"Have you seen his Shielding? I've seen _bairns_  with better-cast Guards." 

"Well," Balin disappeared behind his shelf with a grunt, and something heavy scraped along the stone floor, "that's why I've made this."

With a flourish, he produced a long piece of flat sanded oakenwood. Dwalin just stared.

"If he can't Spell a Shield, he might as well carry one," Balin said proudly, smiling. Unflappable, as always.

 

* * *

_Liisson_

 

She should have expected this day, in all honesty. The boys had come of age ten years ago, and had been raring to go ever since. And with their uncle's hundred-and third birthday just a week away, this probably was as opportune a time as any.

Still. What Valar-forsaken hour did they call this?

"It'll be sunrise soon-"

"Very soon, and we were up-"

"Already, up thinking and wondering and couldn't-" 

"Sleep so we decided to just come to ask you, Maman-"

"If we could please, please go with Uncle, he's put out the Cloud -"

"Mister Balin did, actually-"

"And Uncle and Mister Dwalin and Mister Balin will all be-"

"Going, Maman, please say we could, and we're-"

"Sorry we woke you."

The twin faces at the foot of her bed did their best to look remorseful. Dis closed her eyes. This was what happened when one had twins, she supposed. Though only, she didn't, she was only supposed to just have one child, her belly even deemed 'small and compact' ("like you, Dis!" Vili had said and got his ear pinched for being cheeky). Then, labouring through one birth, a little boy was born, healthy and hearty, who drank well and slept well that evening. 

Then everyone woke up the next morning to two boys asleep in the cradle, attached at the ankle. 

They had never managed to determine who was who, the Boy and the Shadow. It was old magic, the midwife said. Powerful magic, forming his Shadow just hours after the babe himself was born. 

Looking back, Dis probably could have done with less old-and-powerful magic. It probably would have given her fewer sleepless nights: for instance - 

"Maman?" Two voices echoed.

\- Now.

"Tomorrow." She told them firmly, and heard their answering groans. "Tomorrow, or we will not speak of it ever again."

Twin sets of feet pounded out the room with a "g'night _,_ Maman! _"_ and the door shook on its hinges as it was slammed shut.

She reminded herself, just before she slipped back into sleep, to have a word with her little brother about ungodly-late night calls and foolhardy quests and his apparent lack of self-preservation. 

 

* * *

 

_Durinson_

 

The shield crackled to life and fanned out from his fingertips, lighting up a pale blue and gold that opalesced at an agonisingly slow pace. Thorin grunted with the effort, pushing out against it, hoping it would be solid enough, this time, this one time, to be strong enough to hold -

The axe cracked against the wavering shield and the Cast dropped to the forest floor with a dying fizzle. The axe whizzed past and landed in the thorn bush some yards behind him.

Dwalin sighed. "Well, that was useless." 

"I did say so," Thorin pointed out, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “We should’ve just practiced with your brother’s Oak Shield from the start. I daresay it would infinitely be of better use than any of my Spells”

He shouldn't have been surprised, really; this session had turned out no different from all the other practices. Time, perhaps, to accept the fact that his forefathers' weapons skills had likely skipped a generation - at least Fili-Kili were a far sight better than he was with forging their Sword and Bow.

"There's still time. You have a week," Dwalin consoled, seeing Thorin's fingers unconsciously seek out the smooth furred wings of the moth lounging lazily on his shoulder, falling into his usual self-soothe habit.

“A week is rather ambitious, seeing how I’ve hardly made much progress over the past eighty years, _bruvann._ ”

“There was that pumice brick you managed to summon on your Age Day,” Dwalin pointed out, and despite Thorin’s exasperated glare, had to bite his lip from grinning at the memories that surfaced with alacrity.

“Can we not?” The younger dwarf was turning an uncomfortable shade of pink. “Bad enough everyone thinks the Quests are all of a snipe hunt; they don’t need reminding that it’s Thorin “is-that-all-he-can-do” Durinson taking them on some absurdical jaunt halfway around the Aerth.”

That was an alarming amount of self-doubt and umbrage coming out from an intended jocular jibe, and Dwalin frowned.

"Thorin," the older dwarf turned serious. "You don't have to do this. The Mountain, the Legacy - most dwarrows chalk them down to old dams' tales. Even your Adad Fror thought it utter nonsense, - _Mahal welcome him-_. Our Kingdom's happy, Dis is a wonderful Queen, and Frerin's living it up at old Fith's, making merry with his Swamp Princess."

"That leaves me with the Quest, does it not?" The jut of his chin meant Thorin was being stubbornly, intentionally obtuse. "I have no choice, Dwal, the Legacy dictates. And everyone saw the Portent this time. Old Master Nar said it was the brightest Starform he'd ever seen - and he saw _both_ Adad's and Sabba's when theirs appeared. The Cloud Call's sent. We wait the week, gather our Company, and we go. Shield or no Shield."

Dwalin grumbled under his breath as they walked over to untangle his axe from the briar. "Can you at least bring yourself back when you get killed by some flying pointed stick?"

"Necromancy was Adad's gift," Thorin pointed out, stating, once again, the obvious. Whoever could forget when Thrain II, "Cold Eye", managed to raise a Reanimated army for his Quest and marched them through the gates of Ered Luin to great awe and fanfare.

Well, look where that got him, Dwalin thought. Nowhere, is where. Or at least, nowhere worth writing back about.

"Sabba could cast Stone, Dis and Frerin both Read," Thorin continued absently, barely flinching where the thorns snagged on his hands. "And what can I do? I conjure Hel-moths and smoldering masonry."

Tharkun, as if in response, flew up and fluttered around their faces madly, making Dwalin sneeze. The axe came free on that one last heave, and the big dwarf hefted it up into its holster

“Ain’t no one will be saying anything disparaging about that, and I’ll knock the teeth out of the first dwarf that does,” Dwalin offered, helpfully. “Besides, what’s not to love about moths?”

Tharkun seemed appeased by this, for it settled down once again onto Thorin’s shoulder and buried itself partway under his collar, feelers tickling at his neck.

“As long as he doesn’t get into the Leaf, or we’d run out before we were halfway out of Eriador,” Thorin chided, and Dwalin grimly agreed. That moth had an unnerving fondness for their pipeweed, and could consume a day’s supply in one sitting if it weren’t watched carefully.

“Right. Same time tomorrow?”

“Same time tomorrow,” Thorin agreed. “Bring Balin’s oak shield with you?”

“No,” Dwalin corrected, “we’ll keep at your ‘Casting, at least until you’ve got a decent Shield going. Maybe work on the Resurrecting spell too, just to cover our bases.”

It was times like these that Thorin could never tell if his old friend was actually joking.

 

 


	3. Default in Our Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We are with you, laddie. We will see it done."

 

* * *

 

The banquet was, by all accounts, lovely and most enjoyable, and though Thorin felt that his sister did not have to go to such extent for his birthday celebration, he was no less appreciative of the effort, as he took in the Hall’s gilded decorations hanging from the gleaming chandeliers. Food covered one end of the table to the other, and the flow of wine had not ceased since the doors had opened to welcome the guests.

All to lull him into a state of accepting calm, he supposed  - helped along by copious pourings of intoxicant brew. A way perhaps, of relaxing him on his Big Day. Not that this was just a birthday he was celebrating. He knew Balin would at this very moment be receiving those dwarves who had answered the Cloud Call, and preparing them for their meeting. For the Prince to meet his assembled Company. 

So caught up in his thoughts, muzzy though they were, that when his sister cornered him at the far end of the table and in no uncertain terms told him that his nephews were joining his Quest, the best he could formulate from behind his third goblet of mead was a muffled " _What_?"

Dis made him put down his cup. “They’re going on the Quest with you, and before you ask, yes, I have spoken to them, and no, nothing I say will change their minds about it. 

If it weren’t for being quite so heavily steeped in the drink, Thorin might have been more able to argue as to why having the twin terrors on a likely futile, very likely dangerous, journey was not the best of ideas. Presently, he managed, at best, to whine out “Dis…” from behind his hands.

“I don’t like it anymore than you do,  _lillebror_. But it’s better you know now than to have them try to stow away in your saddlebags.”

“They can’t possibly fit into my saddlebags,” Thorin argued, weakly.

“They’ve been wanting to go since their Age Day. They waited ten years for you, and believe me, whatever we say or do won’t stop them one bit.” She looked at him seriously, and he reluctantly caught her gaze. “I’m telling you, so you can do your best to look after them. As I know you will.”

Thorin resisted the urge to look down at his side to see if there was truly a knife stuck and twisting in there.

_Thank you, sister. I think._

The Queen obviously Read his mind, for she laughed, suddenly, and with a mild desperation. “Oh. I am sorry, Thorin, it wasn’t meant to sound that way… you will take care of them, of course you will, I’m just - speaking, as a mother. As their mother.”

Thorin sighed, all the good humor from the celebration receding as he took in his sister’s worried face. He would leave her, in a few days, not just with the existing burden of Queenship, but the added anxiety of her sons’ safety and their uncertain fate. He reached for Tharkun, happily sprawled atop the fruit platter, and placed him back on his shoulder.

“Maybe I should stow them in my saddlebags, but send them in the direction of Frerin and his Bogcastle instead.” The two royals shared a smile at that.

A dwarrowling, not more than forty, suddenly appeared by their table, and sketched a badly executed bow; an indication that Thorin was to take his leave to the Sanctum to meet his Company. Dis kissed her brother on the forehead as he rose from his chair. 

“Adad would’ve been proud.”

_Better alive than proud,_ went an old adage, however, and Thorin mulled over that thought all the way out of the Halls.

 

* * *

 

“Happy Hundred and Three!” Twin faces shrieked as Thorin pushed open the Chamber door, and he was nearly bowled over as they leapt up at him for a hug. Tharkun took off from his shoulder in time to avoid getting squashed by the overexcited dwarrows. 

“About time you got here,” Dwalin groused, pushing off from where he leaned against the wall. “I can’t tell if I’m getting a headache from the cheap wine or those two oliphaunts of yours.”

Fili-Kili pulled identical faces at the Princeguard, before turning their attention back to their Uncle, blonde and black hair whipped about their heads.

“Did Maman speak to you-”

“About us coming along-”

“On the Quest?”

“She did, and we agreed on it.” Thorin answered, and had to keep both hands clasped on their shoulders as they whooped and hollered and danced about at the news. “But! But, and this is serious, boys; she made me promise to take care of you, and ensure you both return to her safely. And I’m not about to make myself an oathbreaker, you understand me? I will have you safe, and I mean it.”

“We promise-”

“Uncle, we promise to-”

“Keep safe, and not do-”

“Anything reckless.”

Dwalin snorted derisively - “Aye, that’ll be the day,” - and extricated the Prince from his clinging charges. Balin had meanwhile rounded the corner of the corridor and was waiting expectantly for them.

“Your Company, Thorin.”

His moth weaving abovehead distractedly, Thorin stepped through into the Sanctum, and was met with eight degrees of dwarven enthusiasm.

Thorin was slightly taken aback at the tiny group before him, and turned to Dwalin to whisper: “Is that all?”

Dwalin nodded, half-shrugged, and mouthed:  _No one else came forth._

“One a time then,” Balin instructed, and the company members obediently complied, standing as Balin called their names.

“Oin, you know Oin, Thorin; healer and physic.”

The grey-haired dwarf clasped Thorin’s arm with a smile: “Good to see you, lad.” And Thorin thanked him, remembering the dwarf who had been by Fror and Freia’s bedsides in their last days.

“His brother Gloin, Fire-Caster.”

The red-haired dwarf extended his greetings from behind his fiery beard. “Also, a reasonably competent treasurer, by all accounts.” - Thorin filed this information away with a nod of acknowledgement.

“The Orisson brothers; Dori - Strongkind, and quite handy in a fight, I’d say.” Thorin’s hand was almost crushed by the tight grip, and Dori looked quite aghast when the Prince massaged his sore fingers.

“My sincerest and uttermost apologies, Prince Thorin.” - - “No need for that, Master Orisson, I am quite whole.”

“Nori Orisson, specialist in Metallwerk.” Nori bowed, and hurried to avoid the gaze of one Dwalin Fundinson, who wore a perplexed frown at the Metallugist’s rather familiar visage. 

“And Ori Orisson, Wordsmith.” The young dwarf barely managed a nod, petrified as he was. Thorin tried a reassuring smile, but that seemed to only fluster the boy more.

“Ursenns, from the Outer Village,” Balin quipped, quoting the chatty one who now was on his feet with a broad beaming smile. “This one’s Bofur, gifted in Stonetongue.”

The hat came off with a flourish, and nearly smacked the ginger dwarf beside him in the face.

“Bombur, his brother,” Balin pointed out said round dwarf, “concoctionist.”

Thorin frowned. “Contortionist?”

“No, Concoctionist.” Bombur clarified, fingers nervously wringing the ladle hanging from his belt. “I cook.”

Before Thorin could make further sense of that, a dwarf with an axe embedded in his forehead jumped up with a loud “wweeeaaahhhhh!” which succeeded in unhinging his jaw and set his tongue flopping about in his mouth.

“Bifur,” Balin said, nonchalantly, even as Thorin jumped back in shock and Fili-Kili gave echoing yells of surprise. “Reanimated.”

“You mean,” Thorin started, when he regained some of his wits, “Thrain’s-?”

“Aye. And he would’ve joined yer Da’s Army, Prince, but his legs kept going out under him.” Bofur supplied helpfully. “We finally managed to sew him back together, though, and he’s as good as new now.”

Bombur realigned his cousin’s jaw, and grey lips stretched into an answering smile. “Mmmmrrhvvvd.”

Feeling somewhat mystified, Thorin took in his Company silently, as Balin made the reversed introductions for the remaining five dwarves. He watched as they shook hands, some politely, others more excitedly (The Twins, of course were fascinated with Bifur, who in turn studied their Shadowbond with much scrutiny), and was brought out of his musings by a soft voice querying: “And the Prince, what is his Magik?"

Dwalin bit his lip, wondering if perhaps his brother could spell a Disremember to that question, asked in all innocence by young Ori Orisson. A glance at Balin revealed that, for that brief moment, he too was unusually lost.

“Nothing much, I’m afraid.” Thorin answered for himself. “I myself have often asked that same question. But apart from Tharkun, I have little to show for my Magik.”

The answering flutter of the moth drew the Company’s attention, as it departed from the far well and came to rest on Thorin’s shoulder.

Gloin made a surprised noise. “That’s a Hel-moth.” 

“Indeed,” interjected Dori, paling somewhat when Tharkun twitched and spread his wings, bringing the skullhead into sharp relief. “You can, ah, communicate with the Hidden Realm, my Prince?"

“No, and not for want of trying, mind.” Thorin said, stroking his moth’s furred back. “Tharkun was summoned when I was twelve, quite by accident, and the only thing I’ve managed to bring forth since has been a single pumice stone on my Age Day in my fortieth year. Apart from that, I am quite hopeless with Spells and Mage-werk of any kind, something Dwalin can quite attest to.”

He took a breath, heedless of the stares, and continued. “I have to carry a sword and shield in place of Casting them, unlike Dis and Frerin I have no talent with Reading, and I have a rather atrocious sense of direction to top it off. As you can see, my friends, I would be rather useless on this journey. So I will not hold it against you if any one should want to take heed of his senses and leave this Quest, for your own sakes.”

Thorin wasn’t sure what he was expecting - an uproar, perhaps, or just a silent procession of dwarves leaving the Sanctum chambers. All for the best, if they had - that would leave fewer people to be hurt, or disappointed.

Whatever he was expecting, it definitely was not his tiny band of twelve to huddle up close to him and a warm arm wrap itself around his shoulders.

“Don’t you trouble yourself on any of that,” Balin said, comforting and familiar as only Balin could be. “We are with you, laddie. We will see it done, together.”


	4. Half-Brick and Conkers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only thing that was worse than not going on the Quest, apparently, was going on the Quest with a Company numbering Thirteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge big thank-you to everyone for your reads and reviews!

* * *

 

It was all well and good in the week’s lead up to the Quest; the preparations had been set, supplies ordered and packed, and Fili-Kili even managed not to aggravate their Maman to the extent where they would’ve been grounded and disallowed to embark on the Quest. Thorin wondered if perhaps he should have tried harder to instigate them into their regular forms of trouble.

The last thing, as with the Quests before, was to spell a Providence Cover over the company, conducted by a High Master with the utmost formality and solemnity, as supposedly befitted the importance of such a ritual 

Superstition, the younger generation would have pooh-poohed - only, no one pooh-poohed Old Master Nar (not if they valued their lives, or beards), and with the odds as stacked against them as they were, Thorin was not about to risk angering whatever ill-tempered deity that was supposed to patronize these endeavours.

He counted eleven of them, lined up and fidgeting with the stiff starched collars of their new travelling shirts, and frowned at the obvious discrepancy. He counted again, and again, remembered to count himself, but came up to twelve and that still wasn’t right. He was naming them off, slowly and painstakingly, when the doors blew open and the Old Master and his retinue entered to an almost-audible fanfare.

“Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, son of Dain, son of Nain-” the ancient dwarf began and Thorin groaned inwardly, the recitation bringing back the tedium of his old bedtime stories and made him feel like a listless dwarfling all over again.

The geneology went on for a good while, which had Bofur and Bombur valiantly stifling yawns, and watching to make sure their cousin didn’t lose a body part stifling his. Fili-Kili did a reasonable job of keeping relatively still, though Dwalin had to kick at them several times when they started to sway and bump into him. Ori, clutching at Dori’s hand, was kept in rapt attention, as were Oin, and Gloin to some lesser, glazed-eyed, extent.

Finally, however, the name of Durin the Dead, first of the First, was invoked, and the first ceremony came to a close. Old Master Nar coughed and took a gulp from his goblet, before proceeding to the next segment.

“Bring forth your companions!”

So Thorin did. And they bowed, and stood at attention as they were peered at and studied by large grey eyes blinking from behind a set of eyeglasses. Some of them even got their teeth checked, much to Balin’s quiet amusement and the Company’s general bewilderment. 

“Twelve will set out from the Blue Mountains,” Master Nar started, once he’d looked over the dwarves. “Twelve, of the company of Thorin Durinson, on this hallowed Quest.”

“Twelve?” Bofur muttered, and the same question was echoed several-fold as the others looked around in rising confusion, as the Providence Spell was being cast. “Who’s missing? Someone’s missing.”

“Me!” Came a voice from behind them, and everyone turned to see Nori barging through the wooden doors of the Sept. “Me! Here, I’m here!

Thorin turned back just in time to see Master Nar turn an interesting shade of white, and gasp: “Thirteen!”

And just about managed to catch the old dwarf in time as he collapsed away in a dead faint.

 

* * *

 

The only thing that was worse than not going on the Quest, apparently, was going on the Quest with a Company numbering Thirteen. No one had bothered to mention this to Thorin, for had he known this accursed number would be the cause of such grief and mayhem, he might have just given up on the whole Quest from the very start. Like Dwalin had told him to.

“Well, ah,” Bombur started, looking rather overwhelmed by the arguing dwarrows, “could we not just call the whole thing off?”

“Or Fili-Kili could leave,” Thorin offered, ignoring the shouted protests from his nephews that only added to the current hysterics, “that would make us eleven in number. That’s auspicious enough.”

“No!” The shout from the religious council was loud and unanimous. “The Spell has been cast for thirteen; it cannot be retracted. One more companion must be found, to break the number and re-make the Quest’s success. The magic is fading from us. This Quest may be the last, and it is imperative that you succeed this time where your forefathers have failed, Thorin Durinson. You have to take back Erebor.”

Dwalin snarled and was very close to physically interposing himself between his Prince and the religious leaders.

“He does not ‘ _have’_  to do anything.”

“Really, Prince Thorin. What would your father say?” One of the septons insinuated, and that made the blood in Thorin’s ears pound hot.

_My father - I don’t even know my father._

The others continued to throw out suggestions that were repeatedly, and unequivocally, rebuffed by a maddeningly persistent council.

“We could look around? For others, I mean, to join our Company. Make up the numbers, that’ll set us right.”

\- - “The Company sets out tonight - will you have found your extra companion by then?”

“Force them, maybe. The dwarves of the Elder Age used to conscript-”

\- - “No, Nori, no!”

“Just take off our Providence and make a new one. How  _fanken_ hard it is to reverse a  _forbannat_  Spell?”

\- - “Nigh impossible, Master Dwarf, and you would take care to watch your tone with us.”

Fili-Kili threw up their arms in frustration, glaring at each other with a set determination, then at their Uncle, who had a hand tersely rubbing at his temples.

“Why can’t-”

“Uncle just-”

“Conjure someone for us, wouldn’t-”

“That solve everything?”

Everyone fell silent at that. As one, they turned to Thorin, who was slowly emerging from behind his hand with a clearing frown.

“Conjure someone…” Balin echoed, “as in, a Realm-dweller?”

“A demon,” Dori breathed.

The proposition flared a strange light in Thorin’s eyes, bright and full of intent.

“A demon. Aye.”

“No, Thorin,” Dwalin warned, and his brother was shaking his head just as vehemently. “Don’t. Don’t do this. It’s not worth it.”

“My Prince, we would advise caution with regard to your - ah - gift. You’ve not had the requisite experience with conjuring the Hidden, Mahal knows what Hel-spawn creature you might call from the depths.”

Thorin’s glare, however, silenced the protesting councildwarf soon enough, and he stepped forward to address the gathered dwarves, knowing his decision was approaching reckless as he caught Old Master Nar’s pleading look.

“You’ve wanted this Quest. You’ve had me training for it my whole life, not that I ever showed myself good enough. But the Durin Legacy is mine now, as you have always told me, and as it was for my father and his father before him. You said it yourselves: I have no choice - and I never did.”

The prince began to roll up his sleeves as he walked over the sunken Font in the Western Sept, his council and Company following him worriedly. Reaching the abandoned fount, he knelt and began to brush away at the centuries of dust obscuring the lines of the ancient pentagrammon that fanned out around the stone dugout.

What he had lacked in conjuring as a bairn, he made up for in reading. And he had read enough to understand the basic workings of blood magic, most arcane of the crafts, and the Summoners' Pit hidden here and long abandoned in their Western Sept. Few dwarves were ever gifted with Summoning, and fewer still would resort to blood-binding themselves to whatever being that was called forth. Some small part of him still questioned if this would be worth it, in the end - but then again, wasn’t he always questioning himself? And quite frankly, that was getting rather tiresome. 

“You don’t have to do this, Thorin,” Balin’s soft words came from behind him, and he felt a twinge of guilt at the desperation in his mentor’s voice. He turned and gave a small smile.

“It’s all right, my friend. Looks like I've come in useful to this Quest after all.”

And with that, he withdrew the dagger from his boot, and with a quick slash, opened his wrist and poured his blood onto the cold stone grooves. He heard a collective gasp from behind him, but forced all other distracting thoughts out of his mind, and concentrated solely on the red flow etching its way across the pentagrammon.

He pressed the blade to his skin two more times, gritting his teeth against the white hot pain as he kept the wound open to fill the various fissures in the ground. The world was starting to take on a yellowed hue, and he distantly wondered how much blood he was losing, and much more it would take to complete this Summoning.

“ _Invocare,”_  he muttered - the very same word he had used all those years ago, which had then made his audience laugh and his mother hide her face in shame at the smouldering rock that had appeared before him. “ _Invocare.”_

The last corners furthest from him were still dry, and he grasped the hilt of his dagger with shaking fingers. He had strength left for one last, forceful slash, and as his vision greyed out, he called for a third time: “ _Invocare!”_

There was something sounding akin to a small explosion, followed by a variety of screaming and a pair of strong hands wrapping themselves around his chest, pulling him back, and away.

His last thought before he passed out was:  _Please don’t let it eat anyone._

 

* * *

 

Thorin woke to a very unamused Dwalin staring down at him as he lay, rather stiffly and with a spinning head, on the cold stone floor. 

“I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” his friend groused at him. “You gave us all a right scare.”

Thorin motioned to his old friend to help him up, which Dwalin did with much care and unusual gentleness - Thorin was rather more expecting a cuff to the head, and maybe a kick to his arse, since that was how Dwalin tended to express his displeasure at whatever persons or things that had been the source of his vexation and undeserved concern.

"What-" the word stuck in his throat and had him gagging on the dry taste of rust as he sat up and rested his elbows on his knees "What happened? Did it work?" 

Dwalin's eyes shifted, with no small amount of - bemusement? His friend had the oddest expression on his face, a strange meeting of a frown and a smile that made his face scrunch up most uncharacteristically.

"You could say that."

By this time, the councildwarves were hurrying over to him with a harried air about them, twitterings of "thank Mahal" and "you're awake, My Prince" and "that was most unexpected" rippling through their ranks, though falling far short of actually telling him what it was exactly that was so _unexpected_.

Balin shooed them away, with the exception of Master Nar, and they both knelt by Thorin's trembling form. The cuts on his arm had been wrapped with clean linen while he was passed out, the wounds not bled through completely, and something smelling strongly of lavender had been smeared across his bandages. Balin tilted the Prince's head up, examining his eyes in the dim chamber light. 

"How do you feel, Thorin?"

Thorin hummed, working his tongue. "Fine. Nothing’s - I'm all right. The demon, Balin, what - what did I summon?"

He closed his eyes, and did not see the Fundinsons exchange pointed looks with the High Master, who cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well, it worked, lad, you summoned... ehm. You summoned..."

Thorin, keeping his eyes still closed, sighed, and repeated, slowly and with great weariness: "What did I summon?"

"Ah." A small, unfamiliar voice sounded. "Hello."

The four dwarves looked up, and Thorin felt his head give a distinct throb. Because standing before him, was the most un-demon demon that ever had the misfortune of being dragged through the fiery Hel-plains and up into some mountain by a half-baked summoner's call.

"His name," Balin ventures carefully, "is Bilbo."

Thorin stared, taking in the small, slight being bundled in a garishly multi-coloured robe. His gaze traveled from the head of copper hair rather unflatteringly disheveled, to the pair of wide green eyes that held a look of apprehensive friendliness, over the bulky robe with what looked like gravy stains down the front, and finally down to the tops of two bare feet covered in thick curls.

This Bilbo creature was most unlike anything he had seen in the magical tomes - lacking the horns and teeth and ember eyes that had come to be acquainted with Hel-spawn beings, if the drawings had been anything to go by.

"Are you sure-"

"-you're a demon? But-"

"-you're so little, even smaller than a dwarf."

Fili-Kili, noting their Uncle was now awake, came bounding over and now circled the little demon with unbridled curiosity, poking at his robe and fingering his hair as was their usual, exasperatingly tactile manner.

"I most certainly am," the Bilbo creature answered, almost huffily, turning back to look at Thorin. “At your service, Master. I would’ve at least put on my coat, really, but I was just preparing for second breakfast when your Summon came and... well. Here I am.”

The demon flapped his hands at his old stained coat, and seemed to stare almost accusatorily at the dwarf before him.

"I'm sorry...?" Thorin apologised confusedly, caught up in wonderings about Hel mealtimes, then frowned at himself for it. Balin stepped forward at this, noting his Prince's lingering addlement. 

"Bilbo, this is Prince Thorin Durinson, son of the Line of Durin, first of the First Dwarves. He has summoned you as the fourteenth member of our Company, to aid us in our Quest to reclaim Erebor."

The little being’s eyes widened at the introduction, and to the gathered dwarves' bewilderment, breathed out in surprised glee: "Thorin! Thorin Half-Brick!"

"Half-Brick?" The Company echoed as one, just as a shadow passed overhead and landed straight into Bilbo's face.

"Gandalf!" The demon cried, laughing and patting at the moth, which had apparently escaped the clutches of its tending councildwarf, and was now fluttering over his forehead. "You silly old thing, how wonderful to see you!" 

Bilbo lifted the moth atop his head, beaming as the moth burrowed a nest in his curls, and rather unaware the sea of uncomprehending faces currently around him - though Thorin's visage, with its rather dark scowl, ran rather more in the vein of 'unamused'. 

The sight of his moth so obviously comfortable with this strange being made a unusual jealousy well up in the Prince, and he finally decided that he should try standing, if only to confront the demon from a better vantage point. He only made it to his feet thanks to Dori's strong grip levering him up by the elbows, but forced his voice out strongly despite the black spots encroaching into his field of vision.

"That's Tharkun. I summoned him when I was but a child."

Bilbo smiled disarmingly. "Well, yes, of course you did. Vanished him straight from under my nose too. And then there was that half a tile you took out of our roof on your Age Day - we always did wonder what that was about."

"Half-Brick," Dwalin said, with dawning comprehension, and a badly stifled snigger, much to his cousin's annoyance. Thorin shot his Guardcaptain a deadly glare.

"It was not my intention to kidnap your moth or destroy your lodgings," he said gruffly, ignoring with great effort the slow smiles spreading across the rest of his Company's faces. "Likewise, your specific being here was neither intended nor quite wanted. But as Balin said, we needed a fourteenth. You are our fourteenth, and you will aid us in our journeys."

He heard a soft _tut_ from Balin as soon as those words were said, and Thorin winced inwardly. Such curt manners were certainly not befitting a Prince of the Blue Mountains, but instead of taking offense or turning wrathful, the demon merely contented himself with dislodging Tharkun from his messy curls and placing him back on Thorin’s shoulder. He took the opportunity to also give some variant of a comforting pat to said shoulder.

“You called, and I answered, and for that I am bound to you, Thorin of Durin’s line, and to whatever task you have set upon. You have my oath and life on that.”

On his pledge, Bilbo drew forth a collar studded with gold acorns, and before all curious eyes, a runic script appeared, rendering the names of the Master and his bound demon in gold letterings along the strap. 

_Half-Brick_ , the first half read.  _Conkers,_ the other.

Bilbo gave a scowl. For all that Hel had a strange sense of humor, he wouldn’t be surprised if Lobelia was behind this particular farce, sat at her mirrormere and nosing in on their proceedings, and in all likelihood at this very moment wetting herself laughing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by thehobbitpanda
> 
> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=2nlqsu9)  
> 


	5. Off the Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road goes ever on and on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge big thank-you to everyone for your reads and reviews!

 

 

* * *

 

The departure from the Blue Mountains was a simple affair - as far removed from King Thrain's triumphal exit as was likely possible. Their supplies were bundled into leather satchels, the ponies were prepped and saddled, and there was a grand total of four dwarves who were gathered to see the Company off on their quest.  

"Don't cry, Maman -"

"we'll be fine, we'll be-"

"careful and listen to uncle-"

"Thorin." Fili-Kili said, as they awkwardly returned the hugs of their mildly-weepy mother. Thorin likewise reiterated his promise to keep the twins safe, and was rewarded by an equally crushing hug from his Queen-sister: "Of course I'll do my best _;_ do my best not to throw them off a cliff--  _oof-!"_

Dis wiped her eyes and smiled at her brother gratefully, her strong grip around his waist a silent wish and prayer for safe roads and a successful journey.

"Mahal be with you," Old Master Nar benedicted, as he made his final blessings rounds, and finished in front of Thorin, to whom he gave the etched Map to Erebor, as he had done for the Prince's father and his father before him. "May you return victorious."

"May we return at all," Dwalin muttered, and Bombur hummed his agreement under his breath.

Standing at the stables' entrance, Little Gimli stared up at his  _fadir,_ now astride his roan steed, and gave a small, shy wave. Gloin felt his heart seize up slightly, but still gave his own shaky wave back, to his son's gap-toothed delight.

"I'll be back," he managed with an emotional croak, and even Nidi was uncharacteristically moved to tears, clutching her boy to her and threatening to eviscerate her husband if he didn't keep to his word. Oin merely saddled his pony and beat a hasty retreat from his brother's family and their discomfiting expressions of affection.

One by one, the rest of the dwarves mounted their rides, some with more finesse than others, and with Thorin and Balin at the head of the line, began to move off, the good-byes and good-lucks from kin and religious leader following them out the gates of the capital. Ori glanced back nervously, as the portcullis was finally lowered and slammed shut with a grinding crash, before returning his gaze forward and swallowing hard at the sight of the rolling foothills of the Blue Mountains as they rode out over the first ridge.

 

* * *

 

Thorin kept them moving forward at a good pace, and it was not long before most of the riders had settled into a comfortable rhythm. The Prince glanced back every now and then, doing headcounts and scanning his dwarves and keeping check on his Company.

"They will call out if something went wrong, stop worrying. It’s only the first day.” But despite Balin’s assurances, Thorin still could not shake the need to see and  _know_ , if anything untoward should happen. However, his concerns eased a little whenever he caught sight of the twins, loud and cheerful on their pony, which patiently bore their excited yelps and startles at every new sight along the path.

“They’ll drive Daisy into a tree at this rate,” Dwalin tsk’d, but Thorin seemed not to have heard him. Daisy didn’t seem to mind her hyperactive dwarves, and his own Minty was a placid ride, faithful steed that she was.

Myrtle, however. Thorin watched as Bilbo struggled with the reins as he veered out of the train on his wayward dun, and sighed inwardly. Bilbo had not done too well on his pony - or rather, the poor creature had taken an immediate and immense dislike to the demon, and was in a right state presently throughout their journey.

To his credit, Bilbo fought to keep in his saddle most admirably throughout all the mane-tossing and flank-wiggling. In the end, when Myrtle decided to come to a standstill and bury her head in a bed of clover, it was really a combination of pity and pragmatism that made Gloin draw up beside them and leash his own pony to the front of them.

“That ought to quiet her some,” the red-headed dwarf consoled, which earned him a grateful smile from the rider, and an ill-mannered harrumph from the now-restrained steed who gnawed at the leash for a good few minutes before giving up and resigning itself to follow behind her pack-mate in a sullen stroll.

Apart from spring showers and occasional equine tantrums, however, their journey along the Great West Road seemed little fraught, and mostly cheery, the calm treks through forest and glade often broken through with jovial, if at times rather risqué, songs.

"How you doing, 'couz?" Bofur asked when they came to a rest stop, the Blue Mountains now disconcertingly tiny in the distance behind them. Bifur wiggled in his cocoon, giving a short bark of happiness, as his cousin checked the wrappings to make sure they held strong. Last thing they needed, he and Bombur agreed, was to have body parts dropping off along the journey.

“We’d definitely be - ”

“In a right pickle if -”

“These fell off.” The twins grinned, as they clustered around the Ursenns, distracted by Bifur’s detachable fingers even as Bofur explained again, at the Princes’ pestering, how to secure the cloth ties.

“Aye,” Bofur said, with a strained patience. “Is why them ties have to - no, no, not like that! Loop and over, loop and over!”

Bifur whined as two sets of hands wound the cloth wrong, strapping one arm oddly across his neck and Bofur finally, decidedly intervened; tactfully, as he pointed out where Gloin was putting out their campfire, suggesting that the elder dwarf might entertain requests to build Fireshapes.

“Fire-”

“Shapes!”

The cousins breathed a sigh of relief as Fili-Kili left chattering noisily. Much as the two young dwarrows were keen on being helpful, the Company had come to realise that they also had an alarmingly short attention span. 

“It’s time to go. Are we ready?” Thorin called from the head of the train, his dapple-grey mount tossing its head just as impatiently.

“Almost, your Highness,” Bombur flustered, packing away the last of his cooking supplies, and most importantly checking that he hadn’t forgotten his soup stone.

When the camp was packed up and ready to move off, Thorin leaned over to his old friend when the others were out of earshot.

“Balin? Which way?”

The older dwarf looked up at his leader, then back at the map. “We’ll keep to this road for now.”

“This road for now.” Thorin echoed, and would have set off confidently in the absolute opposite direction if not for Dwalin’s hand snagging onto his coat and righting him around. “Right, yes. This way!” 

 

* * *

 

As the week progressed, and with his mount now placated and the ride less fraught with concerns of bodily injuries, Bilbo was able to take in the surrounding landscapes so alien and different from his own Shire. Hobbiton was a single ridge at the edge of the Helfire Lake, a small cluster in the Shire Circle of smials and holes dug into cracked and dusty ground, where he and his kin of lesser demons (known to themselves as _hobbits)_ lived. This greenery that was now around him was unusual in its colour and sounds and  _life._

Gandalf, likewise, seemed particularly taken to this new environment, and fluttered happily above their heads - not too far above; not after it nearly got swooped by a circling hawk, and spent a good day and a half shivering under Thorin's travel coat.

Still. He could get used to this, Bilbo mused.

“You look happy,” Ori observed, as he slowed his pony to a walk.

Bilbo couldn’t argue. “It’s a nice world you’ve got up here. It’s different, where I come from. I suppose green things don’t grow very well in Hel.”

“Maybe you could take something back with you, try to grow it back there?” Ori offered, then watched as the leaves of a passing low branch withered under Bilbo’s searing touch. “Or maybe not…”

“They seem to be enjoying themselves,” Nori commented to his older brother, their positions at the rear giving them a good view of the Company, and of their little Orisson riding amicably beside Bilbo. “Good thing he’s made friends with the demon on this trip, who’s turned out a nice chap anyway. Told you, you worried too much.”

In response, Dori just glared. His brothers were entirely enjoying themselves too much on this. 

The eldest Orisson’s mood did not improve much the next morning either, when he was the one to discover that Gandalf had managed to somehow get into the bags and consumed a half-share of the weed.

"Incorrigble creature," Balin scolded, salvaging what he could of the chewed-up Leaf and glaring at the unrepentant lepidopteran. He went on to Spell a mild Impenetrate on the bag and put himself in charge of rationing their Leaf supplies, to the Company's relief. 

“That’ll teach you,” Thorin added, wagging a stern finger, when a repeat attempt to burrow into the bag sent up a shower of sparks, frightening the moth away.

“Poor thing,” Bilbo crooned later with Gandalf huddled miserably in his hair. “It’s all right, I’ll share some of mine with you. Just don’t be getting into any more trouble with the others. Bombur looked quite serious when he said he’d cook you in his soup if you misbehave.”

“I was completely serious,” Bombur said, overhearing them, but he shared a smile with Bilbo, nonetheless.

 

* * *

 

The days melted on into each other, hours of long riding spent in companionable chatter, and slightly uncomfortable nights spent contending with rocky sleeping grounds and cacophonous sleep habits of a select few. The next day’s early morning grumpiness, however, was almost always alleviated by Bombur's magnificent cooking - "definitely Magikcraft," Oin would often be heard to praise, loudly and repeatedly.

Watching the friendships and camaraderie form amongst his disparate band of dwarves and demon, Thorin actually began to feel a little better about the Quest. With little to no prior accounts of the journey from his predecessors, he had expected to be set upon and attacked at every turn of the road - which had simply not been the case. Be it blessing, or luck, or merely the run of events, the Company has so far had little to worry about apart from positioning rocks away from sensitive body parts and protecting their Leaf rations from insatiable Hel-moths.

He wondered how long their luck would hold out for. 

Not long, said his sinking suspicions. But he still held out a faint hope that his suspicions were wrong. 


	6. Arcana Says

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More dangerous adventures over the Edge of the Wild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again, everyone, and apologies for the slow-ish updates trickling in.

* * *

 

Cross the border, the map had said, and head into the wild. Even Ori checked and double-checked, and confirmed that, despite the confusion of runaway words scampering across the parchment, the instructions read the same every time. 

They had been riding for weeks now, and there was no sign of a wall, a road, nor any conceivable variant of a border anywhere along the way.

“A magic border, perhaps,” Bofur offered, oddly cheery still, despite having failed to elicit information from any of the rocks on their beaten path. The closest he had obtained was a striated mudstone that bleated on and on about “ _the guards, the guards!”,_ which Bifur took pity on, and had cradled the wailing concretion in his sling until it fell silent.

“Nah, we would have felt something if we did,” Nori corrected the too-optimistic Ursenn, “and I checked at every mile. No traps. None that would be used to guard a Pass, anyhow.”

Bilbo looked pensive as he brought his pony up to the front of the line, the little dun grumpily compliant. “Read out the map runes again, Ori?”

“Enter, good dwarrow, on a midsummer mild,” Ori repeated, tracing the shimmering lines on the map. “Pass the Pass here, on the Edge of the Wild. Days be to travel, nights be to count. Leave on the Lake and summit the Mount.” 

Dwalin scowled. “Still not helpful.”

“What’s on your mind, demon?” Thorin asked, startling Bilbo somewhat. In their weeks of travel, the Durin Prince had hardly spoken two sentences to him, preferring to keep his distance and letting the others induct him into their Dwarven Company. 

“Bofur may be correct,” Bilbo explained, feeling his collar heat up under the scrutiny of thirteen sets of eyes. “We’re obviously in the right place, here where this mark is, with that river we’d just left behind and that mountain range over there. The Pass may well be invisible, rather than physical. And possibly drawn with magic so old we’ve never seen or felt the likes of it before. We wouldn’t even be able to tell when we have breached the Pass.” 

The dwarves didn’t look too enthusiastic about that thought.  

“Old magic,” Oin gave a sniff. “Don’t much like the sound of that.” 

“We double the watch,” Thorin decided, and was secretly relieved when that sets the other dwarves nodding in vigorous agreement. “No telling what we could run into.”

“Or what could run into us.” Ori glanced nervously around.

“Run - ”

“Over - ”

“Us.” Fili-Kili added, grinning. Dwalin’s scowl merely deepened, and for that, the twins were made to take first watch that night.

 

* * *

 

It was the night when it was Nori’s turn on first watch that finally, something happened. A long time coming, the same quiet suspicion whispered in Thorin's mind, and there was an odd reassurance in that. 

Set up for the night, and with dinner cooked and consumed in usual fashion, they were all about to make ready for bed when a slow rumbling began to emanate from the ground; minute tremors at first, then growing, a shaking that felt less like a quake and more like the drumbeats of a host of heavy-shod shoes pounding at the earth.

They heard, rather than saw, the creatures at first, snorting grunts sounding from all around them. Nori gave a curse, at once emptying his pockets of ornate spoons that looked like they had once belonged to -

“Mahal above, _lillebror,_ you stole the Holy Sept’s silverware!”

“Not now, Dori!” Nori hissed, hands flying over his walking stick and turning it into a staff with a conjured coat of silver. “Where are they?”

“I don’t see anything,” Ori pressed up against his brothers, limbs trembling.

Another rumble, but this time, Bilbo felt the ground beneath him shift. He managed to gasp out - “underneath!” - just as the forest floor exploded in a shower of clod and brush, and three hulking figures not so much rose as _take shape_ from the dirt around them.

“Trolls!”

Balin’s cry was almost immediately lost in a chorus of yells and roars as the Company rallied together. Bilbo and Ori found themselves squeezed to the back as the others fell into haphazard formation, various weapons brandished or cast, watchful and ready as the dirt forms settled into towering humanoid figures.

The first Troll, unsteady though its form was, was lunging forward even as parts of his limbs broke off, and mere brute force was sufficient to bring it down, the various Company members hacking and slashing at the moving dirt, cutting it down to size, then smaller and smaller, until it crumbled into a mound.

This, however, gave time for Troll Two and Troll Three to wholly form. Fili-Kili immediately set upon the one with a grotesque hunchback, the Shadowbond around their ankles stretching thin as they looped under the Troll, over each other, all flashing shields and shifting swords that grew and shrank at each pass they made, aiming for and cutting at the weak joints. Bofur and Bombur were right behind the Twins, clutching what had been a skillet and a spit, now coated with Nori's ironsmelt, lending weight and heft to their strikes. Dwalin and Thorin leapt forward, axes swinging, and Thorin's oak shield as much a battering ram as it was a guard.

The campfire snuffed for a brief moment, plunging the place into darkness for a split second, before it roared to life and shot out of the camp circle, coalescing into a wolf's snout. Gloin gave a wordless yell as the Fireshape burst into a cloud of embers, only to take on a winged form that took off, sweeping overhead and plunging down to attack at the Trolls, who howled and batted at the flames.

"Keep her steady, Gloin!" Balin called, reaching into his robes for another sachet of powder, narrowly avoiding a hurled boulder that would have likely barreled into the dwarves behind if Dori had not stepped out front and brought it to a grinding halt.  The Strongkind gripped the underside of the boulder, and with a yell lifted and flung the rock right back at the Troll, taking out its right arm and half its shoulder. Bifur rolled out of the way, detaching his foot to avoid being caught in the rubble, and hobbled over to stick a branch up a Trollish unmentionable.

Distracted by the Trolls and fighting in the dark, no one saw the menacing figures creeping up around them. By the time they knew of their presence - when the last Troll had burst with a roar in a shower of dirt - the exhausted Company was surrounded by fearsomely leering faces.

“Ah.” Bofur noted, bent at the waist and panting from the fight. “Aye, _these_ Guards.”

"Who dares enter our Wilds?" A huge Ork stepped forward, pale like a moon struck mountain, heavily marked with runes and symbols carved into every inch of his skin. His pelt coat, however, was unmistakable, with its Warg head grinning from where its jaws enclosed around his bald scarred head.

An Archmage, and Bilbo got the shivers just at the sight. Bilbo had little dealings with the superior powers and principalities, but every demon would have seen a crowning, where the Archmage received his title in a trial by Warg, which he would proceed to strike down, flay, and unravel the pelt from the still-warm flesh beneath. Failing which, the satisfied Warg would not require a feeding for the next three days.

This one obviously survived the Warg trial. Given how closely the skin sat to his body, he had been but a mere lad when he made his kill.

The voice boomed forth again. "I ask once more, soujourners. Who enters our Wilds?"

Thorin stepped forward, sword and shield gripped tight. "This is Company of Thorin Durinson, first son of Thrain, first son of Thror, of the house of Durin the Dead, first King Under the Mountain."

The Archmage took one look at the dwarf before him, and laughed.

 

* * *

 

It was a most observably one-sided struggle, not in the least because every conceivable object in sight had, at the Black Guards’ commands, turned against the members of the Company in a flurry of pelting rocks and twisting foliage. The campfire, where it had previously been alive and roaring, was now barely a sputter despite Gloin’s best efforts, and Balin’s residual spellcast. Even Bombur’s soup ladle was not spared, uncharacteristically bristly as it rapped its former owner on his head every time he tried to struggle out of the Guards’ grip, to the ginger dwarf’s abject distress.

“Durin’s beard, Bombur! Control your crockery!” Bofur snapped, when his brother ducked and the misaimed swipe clocked the younger dwarf across the face instead.

Bilbo hardly put up a fight as he was dragged to the outer circle with the others. He recognized physical futility when he saw it, and he was never one for size and brute force. So unlike Fili-Kili, spitting like wildcats, or Dwalin and Dori, roaring and throwing themselves at the Ork guards, he hunkered down, small as could be, coat wrapped around Gandalf.

_Come on, Baggins,_ he chided himself silently, watching as the Company were dragged away and held down and Thorin was left, alone in the ring, to face down the Archmage.  _Think._

The mage stood easily two heads above Dwalin, tallest of their Company, and he loomed even bigger as he approached the lone Durinson.

“Thorin, son of Thrain. Know that you have trespassed into the domain of the Black Guards, and have broken the First Rule of our lands. Recompense, thus, will be demanded.” 

The Prince glared up at his adversary, grip tight on his sword to quell any shaking in his hands. “We knew not of these rules - we are but mere travelers. These dwarves are my companions, and they’ve followed as I have led. Tell me whom it is I have offended, and what must be rectified, and I will do it. Only do not harm my friends.”

The Ork swept a low bow mockingly. “A touching speech that would have moved the hearts of many. I accept your offer, son of Thrain. Perhaps this could indeed be settled in single combat. Should you win, I will allow your Company to pass unharmed.”

_Should you lose_ \- Thorin swallowed, hard.

“You have not given me your name, creature.”

A roar of laughter went up through all the Guards, and the Archmage graced him a wide smile, stretching his scars over his face. 

“My name is Azog, little dwarf. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

 

* * *

Thorin stumbled to his knees, a blast of Magik from Azog’s spiked staff slipping past the meager defence of the wooden shield he had been unable to raise in time. The Ork laughed, twirling his staff and side-stepping a sword strike with nary a raised eyebrow.

“You’re not very good at this, are you, little dwarf?”

Thorin snarled. “Shut it, _halftroll_.” His sword swung out again, a Weaponcast elongating the blade to extend the strike, but the swing was mistimed, only meeting thin air, and the tip dissipated immediately on contact with the ground.

Thorin’s Spells were never strong to begin with, and he would have always been at an unsurprisingly bad disadvantage regardless. Facing down an Archmage, in all honesty, was sheer madness. Still, he pushed his Skills as far as he could - further, possibly, than he’d ever - and Dwalin, hacking uselessly at the vines that encircled him, could only watch in growing dismay as each strike became paler and weaker with every new form. Could only watch as another lightning bolt from the Archmage’s staff found its target, and he heard Thorin snap off a strangled curse as it punched through mail and surcoat and charred the skin beneath.

Thorin backed away to the perimeter of the ring, putting distance and time between them, just about enough to conjure and hurl a flimsy Incendiary, which flared a strange flame as it broke across Azog’s face. The green fire blazed like an emission of Hel-light - _was_ Hel-light, in fact, and the fractal tinted glass also made it instantly recognizable as one of Bilbo’s own kitchen luminaires. 

(Thorin really needed to stop conjuring things from his abode.)

Azog growled, batting at the green fire that stuck like pitch to his skin, and the distraction allowed Thorin to get in one good strike that had the Mage hissing in pain, a red slice appearing across the pale shoulder.

The other dwarves cheered - briefly. But their good spirits were all but crushed when Azog righted himself and brought his staff around, a flail head appearing and shooting out with unearthly speed to slam into Thorin’s side with a sickening crunch.

“Thorin!” Dwalin cried out as his prince collapsed with a pained yell, his brother echoing his terror a moment later. The Company’s renewed efforts to free themselves only amused their Guards further. Azog, turning to survey the dwarves, smirked at their desperate attempts.

“Single combat, boys,” the Archmage taunted, rounding back on the dwarf who was sprawled on the floor, gasping. “Just him and me now.”

Bilbo winced as Thorin barely managed to dodge another strike, his roll away from the mace tearing a ragged groan from him as it grated hidden injuries. He knew Thorin was not going to last this fight. Not alone.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo whispered urgently, an idea suddenly forming and he cradled the moth in his hand. “Gandalf, fly out. Fly out.”

In the chaos of the fight, no one noticed the glimmer of a little moth taking flight, winging hurriedly up into the deepening night sky. Only Bilbo could see its tiny form disappearing into the black, and only Bilbo noticed another shape emerge, wingspan elongating and silhouette stretching out. 

The next thing anyone knew, really, was the shadow of a great Eagle suddenly descending upon them with a screeching cry.


	7. Going Native

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the halls of the Woodland Realm.

* * *

 

Bilbo had expected a bigger reaction, possibly with shouting and many more weapons leveled at their faces. They had after all, just dropped into the Palace Court of the great Ylfe forest of Mirkwood, with nary so much as a ‘ _by-your-leave’._ And while it had not been entirely his fault, and he possibly deserved some thanks for getting them out of that one rather sticky situation with the Archmage, he had truthfully been aiming to somewhere a little further East. 

It was merely an unfortunate turn of events, Bilbo’s sudden inability to hold out Gandalf’s Eagleform. But a sharp spike of pain in his neck had come on so suddenly it made him drop the _Morphe_ , and Gandalf had proceeded to turn back into a moth under their feet, dropping the lot of them quite ungracefully from a height as they crash-fell through the treetops.

Obviously, he had overestimated his abilities, somewhat. He hadn’t had to _Morphe_ anyone since he’d last tried to sneak a tween Drogo in to watch a Fifth Circle Beast Tournament.

The tall blonde Ylfe studied the Company at his feet with something not quite amounting to surprise. “Guests,” the Ylfe commented blandly, then looked up at a sight beyond the dwarf heap. 

The members of the Company, covered in foliage and in various states of prostrations, craned the necks to follow. They were greeted by the sight of another Ylfe, taller and even more regal, sitting on a huge antlered throne across the clearing, silver robes glinting in the pale moonlight streaming through the canopy overhead.

“Strange guests,” the Ylfe King agreed, tilting his head. “What brings you to Thranduil’s Kingdom in such manner, _dweorlings_?”

“An accident, assuredly, O King.” Balin managed to get to his feet first, as the others took turns getting everyone upright. “We were attempting to reach Lake Town, beyond this forest, but have obviously fallen short, you could say.”

“Yes,” Gloin added, nodding hurriedly, watching the scowl on the fair face deepen. “A mistake we are most glad to amend, your Ylfeness. We will be on our way now, posthaste.”

At the very obvious cue, added on with the old dwarf’s frantic and most indiscrete gesticulations, the Company broke out in a chorus of apologies and reassurances and steadily backed away from the Throne, aiming for the line of trees and their escape route. 

The wave of an elegant hand brought them up short, way barred by a dozen guards that had melted out of the shadows of the woods. 

“Come now,” Thranduil smiled condescendingly. “An attempt to traverse these Woods weary and ill-supplied is most unwise. Allow me to extend to you my help, especially to your wounded companion.”

The dwarves grimaced, and seemed to Bilbo to form up closer, blocking the Ylfe’s line of sight to where Thorin was being heavily supported by Fili-Kili, swaying unsteadily on his feet.

They weren’t buying the charitable act. Every gentledwarf worth his basalt knew that Ylfes were not to be trusted.

 

* * *

 

It was little more than a mere change of captors, though the beings now were fairer, and somewhat more pleasant-smelling. But once again, found to have illegally entered yet another territory, the Company was treated less as guests and more as trespassers - with the requisite response. Divested of their weapons and most of their armour, they were taken and locked away in the Forest cell, a wood structure elevated high in the trees overlooking a black river that snaked through the Mirkwood, and the arboreal heights were enough to make even the most hardy dwarf uncomfortable.

“This isn’t natural,” Dori muttered at the sight of the dizzying drop beneath, and the others concurred, queasily. The wind rustling the treetops about them, and the wood creaking beneath their feet, only served to further their dwarven unease of anything outside the safety of stones and mountains.

Seventh-level demon that he was, and used to being at the bottom of things, Bilbo couldn’t help but agree.

“What’s not natural, is that they’ve got Thorin.” Dwalin growled, and his kick rattled the slatted bars of their cell, which made several of the other dwarves jump about in fright.

“They offered their help, which Thorin was in sore need of. He’s got Fili-Kili with him; they’ll keep an eye on those Ylfes.” Balin soothed, though a frown still creased his brow. Oin gave a soft harrumph, obviously in disagreement with the idea that his Prince was receiving better treatment from the pointy-eared healers than he would have given him.

The grumbling and general distemper carried on for a few hours, until dusk started to settle and the dimming sky brought a trio of Ylfe hurtling up a pulley platform with food and bedding, bringing with them three exhausted-looking Durin princes. 

“Thorin! Fili-Kili!”

Their Ylfe guards looked distantly amused as the dwarves crowded around their returned companions, though one blonde guard kept his hand firmly on his unsheathed dagger and a narrowed gaze on any prisoner unwise enough to try to escape.

Fili-Kili stumbled onto the wooden platform, supporting their uncle between them, and was more than grateful when Dori and Dwalin came forward to take the semi-conscious burden from them. 

“They say Uncle was -”

“Lucky to get away with - ”

“Only some burns and scrapes and bruised-”

“Ribs for facing down an Archmage.”

 “He’s got a hard head, is why,” the Princeguard grumped, the said head lolling against his shoulder as they shuffled Thorin over to a quiet corner and laid him down.

A clatter of plates, as the Ylfes set down their food, and Oin retrieved the medical supplies from them with a grudging grunt of thanks.

“The burn on his shoulder will need to be kept dry, and take heed not to bind his ribs too tightly lest he runs into trouble breathing,” a dark haired Ylfe mentioned, missing Oin’s impressive side-eye at his slew of advice.

The Ylfes left promptly, checking the lock on the cell as they went. Those dwarves not tending to Thorin immediately set about inspecting their dinner.

“Greens,” Ori declared after a cursory check, and the whole Company pulled a face, and only Bifur smiled happily and began tearing handfuls of lettuce. Even the cask of Elfwine did little to lift their spirits.

Bombur turned despairing eyes toward their resident demon.

“You have to get us out of here, Bilbo. Before they starve us all to death.”

 

* * *

 

An escape was not so soon in the making. For one, Thorin had barely recovered from his fight with the Ork Mage, still kept under in his healing sleep by Ylfen medicine, and moving the Company out at this juncture might prove rather tricky. For two, Gandalf was just as exhausted as the rest of them, the changing of forms and the flight out of the Pass having taken a toll on the little moth, and he wouldn’t serve as their getaway flight out quite just yet.

For three… well, Bilbo was fresh out of ideas at this point.

Thoughts of a plan kept him awake, however, as the night deepened and the rest of the Company dropped off to sleep one by one. Huddled in his corner near the warm bulk of Bombur - which served well to keep the wind off his back - Bilbo whiled the night with contemplations of his dwarven companions. Particularly, he thought to himself, Thorin Durinson. 

A Dwarf Prince and the legacy of a Quest, to find a Mountain borne out of song and legend, to reclaim some lost dwarven Kingdom, and then to - to what end? Reuniting the race of Dwarves? Reinstating the name of the line of Durin? From what he’d seen and heard from Thorin, and the others in the Company, it seemed the Durin heir had little more understanding about this Quest than any of the others, that it all seemed little more than making a response to a portent and a directive, beholden to the expectations of royal ancestors who in all likelihood were already dead. 

It seemed a lot to risk, for so uncertain a goal. And for so indefinite a goal, its burdens and worries were most definitely present, weighing increasingly heavily on the Prince as their journey progressed.

And how did he, minor demon of the Shire of the Seventh Circle, how did he managed to get mixed up in all this? It was most unlike him to be whisking off on such ill-reputed endeavours, these so-called ‘adventures’.

A movement from far below the trees caught his eye, shaking him of his thoughts. Bilbo craned his neck to catch a better look, failed, then decided to leave the comforting warmth of the huddle and edge over until he was peering through the bottom-most slats. 

A small barge traveling up the black river had pulled up to a small dock, the sailors met by a small contingent of Wood Ylfes who dragged several small barrels up to the riverside, their indistinct thanks and instructions carried up on the still night air. Bilbo watched as the sailors finalized their transactions, then turned their barge around and headed back down the waterway.  

Twice in two days, it was up to Bilbo to come up with their brilliant escape plans.

 

* * *

 

"What do you mean, turn us into barrels?" Gloin said, in a voice someone less forgiving would have deemed as 'shrill', when Bilbo shared the next day of his late night observations and the beginnings of a scheme. "As in,  _real_  barrels?"

"Do you have a better plan to get us out of here?" The demon hissed softly, making shushing motions with both hands and despairing of dwarven discretion. "Yes, real barrels, but it's just a _Morphe_ spell, same as the one I used on Gandalf when I turned him into that Eagle. Look, there's some celebration happening for these Ylfes - a big celebration, judging by the amount of wine coming in. This could be our chance."

"To escape,"  Balin agreed. "There won't be no one watching us if they're all randy and partying."

"And there’s a shipment of barrels what leaves tonight," Bofur supplied. "Them guards I overheard, they said Lake Town was the final stop."

"Which means that we have but a few hours to find a way to get out of this cell, down to the river, and onto that boat." Dori looked unconvinced at the plan, and shot the demon a despairing look that only earned him a rapid bobbing of the curly head in reply. 

Bombur hurried over to where the three Durins lay, asleep and oblivious to the commotion around them. Shaking Fili-Kili awake, he briefly explained recent events and bade them wake their uncle. Which Fili-Kili did, try. Admirably. But whatever medicines were given to Thorin kept him under and comatose, and the twins began to panic, frantic and despairing of "Ylfen-magik" and "a spell, a foul spell on our Uncle!" 

"Nonsense," Oin stomped over. "They've just given him too much poppy juice in his medicines, the incompetents."

Fishing a small vial - empty, transparent - from within his clothes, where he’d kept only the smallest and most important of potions, he dropped an invisible drop onto his thumb, and then proceeded to run it back and forth over the Prince's bottom lip.

"Un Poppy," he said. 

No sooner did he, that Thorin jerked awake with a start, pulled out of his cocktail of pain draughts like a marionette, a doorknob apparating itself in his flailing hand.  

"Thorin, this has got to stop," Bilbo said in dismay, looking at the (yet another) piece of his house that had once again been accidentally conjured out of the demon’s Hel-home.  

"Sorry," Thorin mumbled muzzily, still reeling and not quite present.

“What’s -”

“Happening?” Fili-Kili asked, not unreasonably confused, and no one else quite knew how to start off even the first part of Bilbo’s cobbled-together plan.

First things first. Getting out.

And the plan stalled until the guards had come and left with their next meal, after which Nori began to pluck the brass buttons from various shirts and coats, ignoring his friends’ protests and gathering them into a small pile.

“Someone keep an eye out for them guards,” he instructed, before he hunkered down before the door and got to work, melding and moulding the metal that flowed into the key hole; the beginnings of the shape of the exact key.

Dwalin gaped at the sight, a rush of memory hitting him at once. “You’re that Metallurge lockpick! You escaped with that forged document, the one with my signature!"

All three Orissons froze at Dwalin’s recount, and Dori winced, half expecting an all-out brawl to ensue given the angry shade of red the Guardscaptain’s face was turning. Ori, hiding behind his eldest brother, was, in turn, very very pale.

Nori took a breath, risking a look behind him. “Aye, captain, that I did. Do what you think is right by your sense of law and order, but if you’re still keen on escaping from this Ylfe fort, you might want to let me finish this first.” 

With that, he turned back to the keyhole, moulding and setting and shaping the brass buttons. And even though Dwalin sat back with a huff and a glower, and nothing more, it still took - a rather long time indeed.

 

* * *

 

Shortly after what would have been dinner, Balin said, from where he was staring out the barred window: "I can see the barge approaching."

The chorus of curses was altogether too loud and too blasphemous, and Bilbo tutted silently to himself.

Thorin, sat propped in his corner and drifting in and out of his draught-induced haze, was still aware of the ongoing developments. With some effort, he made it to his feet, alone. “Finish the lock, Nori. Bilbo, how long can you maintain the _Morphe_ for all fourteen of us?”

“As long as I have to,” Bilbo assured, trying to inject some false confidence into his voice. Already, he could feel the beginning of the same ache starting up at the back of his neck.

Thorin nodded, though he shot a pointed look at Balin, who nodded grimly.

“We’ll help move things along,” the older Fundinson said, and he and Oin promptly set to work on a batch of poppy darts, the physic titrating the juice from an identical empty bottle hidden somewhere under that great beard - adding a little extra to account for Ylfen body size.

“Ori,” Thorin instructed, “once we’ve gotten down to the shipment, you’ll need to help us with paperwork for fourteen extra barrels. Try not to let your spelling slip.”

The young dwarf gulped. “Yes, your Highness.”

The Company rallied around their Prince as the remaining orders were painstakingly given out, Bilbo stepping in occasionally to furnish details that Thorin had missed in his earlier medicated torpor.

“Gloin, keep our torches low. Fili-Kili, scout out and let us know the clearest paths to take and _quietly, mind._ Dwalin, Dori - the darts will be yours to handle. Bombur, Bofur - make sure none of our tranquilised Ylfes actually fall off their tree perch.”

“No guarantees,” Dwalin quipped under his breath, and Bofur hid his snorted chuckle behind a cough.

“And Bifur?”

“Hmmmmmrh?”

Thorin blanked for a moment, but managed to eventually assert: “Keep yourself together.”

Pale reanimated eyes lit up in a smile. “Mmmmmrh!”

 

* * *

 

Their progress out of the cell, once Nori’s key had set and turned the lock beautifully smoothly, was mainly slowed by Thorin’s injuries and a good deal of crouching and waiting. Fili-Kili did their best to route the Company along the quietest walkways, first finding the way down the winding steps cut into the trunks, then creeping below the canopy and testing that the planks would hold under their sturdier dwarven weights.

That no one caught them in their great escape, no sounding alarm or flying aimed arrows, was no mean feat and an admirable effort on the twins’ part. In final count, Dwalin and Dori had both taken out two guards each by the time they were at the bottom of the forest, and a grand total of zero had fallen out of their perch. Not that Dwalin didn't try. 

Still, reaching the forest floor gave them nary a breather, as the sight of the Ylfes completing their transaction with the sailors set them all off in a hasty, awkward lope towards the river, Dwalin dragging Thorin along with him in spite of all the pained groans.

All fourteen of them dropped into a tuck-and-roll on nearing the last yards of river dock, their half-spelled forms of bipedal casks righting themselves and shuffling over behind the turned backs of the retreating Ylfes, and forming up a last line of barrels that were readying to be placed on the barge. 

“Hang on,” they heard a voice say. “This don’t look right - we was only supposed to take sixteen barrels back.”

At Thorin’s nudge, Ori placed his parchment above his barrel head and closed the lid with an anxious shudder.

“Hie, this is a second batch,” a second voice sounded above them as the owner picked up the parchment. “Thirty in a night? Them Ylfes sure know how to throw a party.”

Several guffaws, a muted “more pay for us then!” cheered, and the fourteen remaining barrels were dragged up into the floating barge, jostled uncomfortably amongst the real barrels, and doing their best not to squeak when hands land on most sensitive and intimate parts of wooden anatomy.

Still, their staves gave a groan of relief when the barge hoisted anchor and curved away from the Mirkwood harbour.

“Set sail for home, lads!” The call went up, and in their excitement, none of the merchants noticed a tiny moth weaving its fluttering pace alongside their trundling barge, down the Forest River and towards the lake town of Laketown.


	8. King Rat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The town on the Lake would have more than its share of boats, the question being: which one?

* * *

 

The spell was surprisingly easier to hold on to this time, the gentle sway of the boat beneath their casks lulling the Morphed barrels into a comfortable, almost sedate state, which meant less grumbling, less resisting, and an overall smooth going for their Demon. Bilbo settled into the same rhythm, coasting on the spell and nudging the Morphe every now and then, and counting just to be sure he still had all thirteen barrels.

Fourteen. Fourteen barrels. He checked himself, relieved as he found that he couldn't move his arms, bound in metal as they were. 

Though he wished he had thought of a Muting when one deckhand decided to use Dori as a sit-upon, eliciting a most obvious squawk of indignation from the Dorwinion wine cask. 

_"Get off!"_

The rest of the Company could hardly stifle their groans of dismay, low and sawing and just enough to pass off as the creaking of wood, as the young Man jumped straight off his perch in fright.

"'Ere, Jonn, what's the matter with you?" The captain said after his crewman nearly ran headlong into the mast in his blind terror.

"B-barrels!" The lad, Jonn, was the very picture of shaken. "The barrel. It t-t-talks!"

The crew, to their benefit, merely burst into a fit of laughter and hustled the poor sailor away with the promise of home and the buxom beauty waiting for him by his hearth.

"But-but I don't know any buxom-"

"We'll find you one, don't you fret," a grizzled boatswain thumped him on the back, nodding at the captain. "Now, go strip the ropes and stay there until you've got your head on straight."

Bilbo watched the men walk to the other end of the barge before he let loose a sigh of relief. Around him, the wooden casks were creaking irritably.

"Nice one,  _broder_." The barrel to his left snidely remarked, and Dori's answering scowl was actually visible through his varnish. 

"Don't you two start," Balin's crate hissed from Bilbo's right. "We've already had one close shave. Last thing we want is to get thrown over the side.”

Despite that one little incident, that was quite easily forgotten by young Jonn once their grog rations were passed around, the journey continued its route toward Laketown. Gandalf, who had caught up with the barge when it hit the narrow bends and was driven deliberately slow to avoid the snags, managed to find a comfortable ride atop Thorin's lid, wings fluttering happily each time the barrel gave a rumble that shook the wood beneath his feelers.

"Would've thought he'd pick you instead," Dwalin said to his brother. "Since you smell more like a Leaf crate than a beer one."

In response, Balin's lid merely tightened, closed protectively over his precious bag hidden within.

 

* * *

 

It was almost daybreak when they finally docked, boat lashed tight in its moorings, and the barrels were rolled and arranged neatly on the dock planks. Huddled together, Bilbo took extra pains to lift the spell slowly, lest they frighten some poor sailor. As it turned out, they only attracted the attention of a twelve-year-old dockhand. 

“Who are yous, then?” The boy had said from behind them, and startled them enough that Gloin’s barrel caught fire and Bombur fell over his still-wooden feet in fright.

Dwalin grabbed a nearby brine bucket and extinguished the flames neatly - not that Gloin thanked him any.

“Ah, my good lad,” Balin took over, as everyone slid away from the ginger dwarf smelling strongly of fish. “We’re dwarves of the Blue Mountains, traveling to see our kin in the Iron Hills. We were hoping to procure the services of a boatman who might take us across the Llyn?” 

Ori made a garbled noise and Nori clapped a hand over his mouth - no, the older dwarf signed, the boy does not need to know that the Iron Hills were _not_ on the other side of the Llyn.

"Oh," the boy straightened, and if he suspected anything amiss, about the inaccurate geography or the lingering oaky brownness on Bilbo’s face or Bifur’s left arm in his right hand, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he merely pointed over the row of small houses lining the side docks.

"You'll be wanting Bard. He's in the know of every boat in this harbour; he'll be able to get you on to whatever place that is you're wanting to get to. Green door, right next to the King Rat. You can't miss it."

"Our thanks," Balin finished, with a coin-full handshake - to the lad’s delight - and the Company made their way into the outskirts of the lakeside town.

The early dawn hours lay a misty calm over the streets and they passed nary a soul, save several straggling sailors, on their quiet cautious way. The King Rat's sign was old and chipped, but still hung prominent over the entrance to the pub, and they found the small green door next to it with little trouble, as the dockhand had promised. 

Thorin drew a breath, and with thirteen pairs of eyes at his back, gave the little door three sharp raps.

“That is not the password, Percy.” The voice from within scolded.

Thorin frowned. Looked back at his Company, then at the door again. 

“Hello?”

The clinking of crockery stopped. “Hello?”

“Hello.” Thorin continued, and would have gone on for further exchanges had Balin not pushed up next to him and cut in.

“Hello, we’re Dwarves arrived from the Blue Mountains and we’re in need of a boat.”

“It’s a town on a lake; everyone’s in need of a boat.” The man sounded closer now, as if he were just behind the closed door. “Where would you be needing to get to?”

The dwarves all shared a look. Thorin cleared his throat, and husked: “Erebor.”

The door swung open suddenly, though no one stepped out. Instead, the Company peered into the gloomy doorway, squinting for the disembodied voice that issued forth. 

“Erebor? That’s just a legend.”

“No,” Thorin felt himself drawing up to full height, gaze blind but confident now with Bilbo pressed in on his side with a Brave Touch. “We are- we were the Dwarves of Erebor. We have come on a Quest, to fulfil a Legacy, to defeat the Dragonborn and reclaim Erebor for Durin’s folk.” 

It was an impressive little speech, Dwalin had to admit. He wondered if Bilbo could teach them that spell; most likely, they would need it if by some long shot they took back Erebor and Thorin got stage fright at his coronation.

Apparently, their host was rather moved as well.   

“A noble quest, at hand. Well, in that case -” the figure intoned, before stepping out of the darkness of his hovel. “You may call me Bard the Bargeman. At your service.” 

Fili-Kili couldn’t help exclaiming: “But you’re-“

“A Rat!” 

“Indeed I am,” Bard stared at them morosely, whiskers twitching and drawing himself up to full height (just above their waists). “But there’s no need to go around being rude about it.”

With a growl, Dwalin cuffed the twins over the back of their heads. “I apologize; they are but young, and stupid, Master Bargeman.” 

“We will still require your expertise,” Dori placated.

“And your services, which we will pay for, once we are availed of your services,” Gloin rumbled, hand closed around the ever-diminishing pouch in his coat pocket.

Bombur chipped in, unusually eager: “You were saying, about your boat?” 

The River Rat swept into a low bow, and loped off to the nearest dock, the Company hurriedly trailing behind.

“Many will overlook my girl, but she will get you to Erebor safe and sound.”

The fourteen of them stared, eyes following the ropeline to where it dipped into the water, the prow of a small boat bobbing just above the murky rippling surface.

“Your boat - does it not float?” Balin ventured.

“Bit hard to float with all them holes in her,” the Rat explained, slowly, patiently, and possibly worriedly at the supposed lack of logic possessed by this dwarven retinue.

“Holes.” Nori intoned, turning to stare at his little brother, who shrugged confusedly. “Holes won’t do us much good if we’re to make it across the Llyn. But I could patch it with some iron, or silver, depending what you’ve got.”

Bard laughed, as if he’d just been privy to some revealed joke. Stopped when he noticed no one else laughing, and said, “you do know, yes?”

“No.” Thorin said, on all of their behalf.

The Rat shook his head slowly, understanding dawning. “You don’t go across the Llyn to get to Erebor, my good fellow. You go _through_ it.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. Well, that all made sense now, that did. 

 

* * *

 

The dwarves clustered on the dock exchanged looks worriedly; more than a few of them wondered out loud if perhaps their River guide had had a touch too much of sun and seawater. 

"I'd not heard this before," Balin admitted, "not in any of the stories the Elders used to tell us _dylladouns_."

Bilbo shuffled beside the group, keeping one eye on the Rat who was currently testing the strength of his mooring rope by gnawing on it.

"I think he means to take our coin after he drowns us," Gloin groused, and a small murmur of agreement raced through the others. 

"Have you so little faith?"

They all jumped as Bard crept up on them, likely having heard every word, and Bilbo pinched himself at how he had missed the stealth of the River Rat who had sidled up to them in barely a blink of (his) eye.

"Accuse me of many things, but dishonesty? And murder?" His fur flattened, in indignation. "We have our own tales and legends too, on the Llyn. When Erebor disappeared, who'd you think was there to witness it?"

The townspeople of Laketown, it stood to reason. Even Dwalin looked grudgingly accepting of this rationale. 

"Erebor is known to your people?" Oin asked. 

"A bedtime story for the kits, mostly." Bard settled back on his haunches, looking up pointedly at Thorin. "But some of us still remember the Legacy of Durin's Folk. Some of us, we believe, are still meant to help."

Thorin stepped forward, eyeing the Bargeman intently, before bowing his head. "We'll go."

 Fili-Kili stared.

“Did he really mean -“

“it, Uncle? We’re to go-“

“ _Through_ the Llyn?”

Thorin pursed his lip thoughtfully, ignoring Fili-Kili’s wide-eyed stares. He was no longer fazed, not after getting stomped at by Earth-trolls and imprisoned by Ylfes and very nearly killed - or at least, inconveniently incapacitated - by a unreasonably hostile Archmage. Now they were meant to hire a boat with the sole purpose of sinking into a lake, rather than rowing across it?

Why not, he supposed. Made about as much sense as anything else on this Valar-forsaken trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed, and who's waited for the update!

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note:
> 
> [Dwarf Age Chart as follows](http://www.lotrplaza.com/archives/index.php?Archive=First%20Age&TID=172597) 
> 
> Birth order: Dis, Thorin, Frerin the youngest
> 
> Liberal and likely incorrect use of a mishmash of Scandinavian/ Old Norse titles, phrases, curses and names. My apologies.


End file.
